


The View Never Changes

by Twig



Category: Professional Wrestling, World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-29
Updated: 2014-01-29
Packaged: 2018-01-10 10:57:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1158866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twig/pseuds/Twig
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post Royal Rumble 2014. <em>"Just because I might retire doesn't mean I don't love you anymore." </em></p>
            </blockquote>





	The View Never Changes

**Author's Note:**

> Continuity: WWE, post Royal Rumble 2014. Not a direct sequel to "Equilibrium" so technically you don't have to read that one to get this one, but I do consider this a follow-up. If you're super dope, you might catch a reference to one of my old (TNA) fics.
> 
> Context: Punk's contract will be up in the summer. He's been said to be lackluster on TV and sounds pretty weary in interviews plus ambivalent about renewing his contract. Title and inspiration from one of Punk's cryptic tweets on the day of the Rumble, which Batista won despite having been absent for nearly four years and Daniel Bryan seems curbed once more from rising to the top, aka everything Punk railed about during Summer of Punk. 
> 
> Caveat: This is possibly the smarkiest fic I've ever written. Sorry.

Punk's seen this side of 3am more often than he'd like. He's also seen this face on John Cena more often than he'd like. 

"Are you stalking me now?" 

Stalk isn't the right word; John walked right up to him. Just like everything else about Cena, there is no subtlety involved, not when John's bus rolled right up next to his then out came the man himself, living up to dirtsheet rumors that he's actually a robot by Terminator-ing his way over. 

John doesn't say anything though, just sits his ass down next to him on the parking curb. It's ridiculous: John looks exactly the same as he did when he walked out to the ring earlier in the night, lime green shirt and jorts. It's not the first time that the word "immutable" comes to Punk's mind when he sees Cena. One day, there's going to be a statue of John Cena at Stamford, and it'll be in damnable jorts. 

"Weird place to stop," John says. 

Punk shrugs. "Figured my driver deserves the untold riches of an Ohio rest stop." 

Crickets are literally chirping. Then, "You do know the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over while expecting different results, right?" 

The laugh snaps out of Punk like a ricochet. "What?" He stares at John now, who doesn't look at him but eyes out there instead, as if there's something spectacularly interesting about Burger King. 

"I figure I'd cut to it." 

"Cut to what, pray tell." 

"Being mad at me for representing everything you hate when the one you really hate is yourself." 

Punk sputtered. _Floundered_ like a goddamn fish with gaping mouth and all. "What the _fuck_ , John?!" And before Cena could say anything, "And by the way, I wasn't even thinking about you at all, you fucking egomaniac." 

"It would've gotten there eventually." John's voice is even like it always is, not in a kid-gloves sort of way, not in a goading sort of way, but a John-Cena-being-John-Cena sort of way. Reasonable and professional. It never fails to infuriate Punk. He shoots to his feet, gets in front of Cena, in his line of sight, makes it so that Cena can't help but reflexively look up at him.

"Fucking smarks are right, you _do_ have to inject yourself into everything. This isn't about you, John. The last thing it's about is you." 

"I'm not here to piss you off, Punk." 

"Well you're doing a bang up job so far." 

John sighs. He drops his gaze for a moment, scrubs a hand over the side of his head, then he looks back up at Punk. "I didn't handle that well. I'm sorry." 

Punk's _other_ Kryptonite: John apologizing. 

Punk literally arghs out loud into the night. Then he, too, sighs. "C'mon, let's talk inside." 

It's better inside his bus. Warmer, for one. Punk plops down to a seat on the end of his big comfy bed, and John seems deliberate in his choice in sitting on the cushioned bench opposite him. 

"So what's with the truth bombs?"

John actually has the decency to look chagrined. Damn, it's a good look. His head is slightly tilted now; he's phrasing shit out in his head. 

"Just spit it out, John. It's actually kinda hot when you don't play diplomat." 

That gets Punk the laugh he wanted, though the expression doesn't last. 

"I know your contract's up." 

"And I might not renew." 

"And you might not renew." 

Punk really takes a look at John then. The blue eyes meet him dead-on. There's something there, Punk can tell, like he can scrape it with the tips of his fingers, which just tempts him to take a crack. 

"Just because I might retire doesn't mean I don't love you anymore." 

It is 1000% worth dropping the L-word just for the look on John's face. Stunned, like Punk wanted. But then something else he didn't expect. A quick one-two blink, and those blue eyes go _soft_. Soft in a way that makes those robot John Cena jokes seem practically offensive. 

"... Phil." 

John almost sounds pained. What the fuck. 

"Shit, John, is that what you really thought?" 

John snorts and shakes his head. "No, no." He gives a threadbare smile. "I do know that not everything is about me. It's just...." And Punk manages to keep quiet for once and let John speak. "I know you're tired. I know you haven't been happy." 

"That's not your fault." The gentleness in his own voice startles Punk. John's never needed it, so he's never shown it, and it's not like it comes naturally to him in any circumstance anyway. But now Punk thinks he's wrong about that first part, that John's never needed it, because he's always thought that Cena's the most inscrutable man on the planet, that he'd never crack him open, that underneath the onion is just more onion, no molten core to match Punk's passion, except right in front of him is _John's fucking face_ , stricken from four little words in a tone of voice more charitable than any Punk's ever given him. 

Shit, he fucking realizes. Shit fuck damn. Why _wouldn't_ John think that? They're on, they're off, they're complicated. They circle each other, they back off, then circle once more. It's business that brought them together, but it's business that breaks them apart again and again, this business where everything is personal. _I don't hate you, John. I hate this idea that you're the best._ And there's always been more truth to that than either of them wants to admit, that theirs has always been a threeway relationship: John Cena, CM Punk, and CM Punk's seething resentment. 

Clearly, John gets the difference. He fucking said it himself: Punk's problem isn't actually with him. But that doesn't mean it doesn't _hurt_. 

"John." And then Punk doesn't know what to say. Imagine that: him, at a loss for words. But fuck if he knows where to even begin. John's right; it _has_ been the definition of insanity. Lashing out at John hasn't ever done him a lick of good. 

John saves him, surging forward until their mouths meet, and it's not a clash or a crush, but warm and familiar, like coming home after the travel grind of the week but better. Better because sometimes his home doesn't even feel like home, when he isn't there five and a half days out of the week. Punk wraps his arms around the back of John's neck and John leans him back onto the bed until Punk is smothered by John's weight. Muscle memory cries its relief. Punk breathes deep. The air smells like John, smells like _home_. 

John cages him with his body, but the last thing Punk feels is trapped. He can't stop touching John, always been tactile but particularly where John's concerned. Not just desire but the feel of him, their intimacy always a time when John's immutability isn't a fault but a reassurance. 

"Stay," he whispers, and he feels John's smile against his mouth. 

"Wasn't going anywhere." 

Kiss is too finite a verb. They break for breath, to press lips to bared shoulders and collarbones, to nip at throat and earlobe, but the comeback is always inevitable. John's lips are always softer than they seem, and Punk learns that fact all over again. They've shed shirts somewhere along the way, but pants have to go now, too. John exhales a laugh before Punk even makes the joke about his jorts. His intake of breath, though, becomes a gasp when Punk yanks him down, and their naked bodies meet flush. Punk can't help but groan either, almost at a loss to be presented with all this bare skin and having to decide what he should touch first. 

Fuck, he's missed this. John's starred in more than one of his jerk-off fantasies during their off seasons, his knowledge painting those mental pictures with vivid detail. Except knowing John's body well just means he misses it all the more, just means it feels all that much better to have it again. But it's more than the scary strong arms and quarter-bouncing ass, more than the pleasure that John knows how to give him. 

It's _this_ : John, cradling his face, kissing him with a devotion that only monks and internet trolls have. For all of Punk's accusations, thought or thrown, that John plays it too cool, never showing the ugliness that real passion entails, Punk's never once doubted John's feelings for him. He wonders now if John can say the same. Sometimes John shames him just with his existence, as though really all you need is this, dedication and nothing more.

By the time John turns him over onto his belly, Punk is aching for it, crying out into the sheets when John fills him. It's been too long, but it's just right, John hard and heavy inside him, breath in his ear, lips grazing the shell, nose nuzzling his temple. John fucks him slow, measured, like a technician taking his body apart, and Punk hangs on, grip tight on the sheets as he pushes back, meeting John halfway. They've always been good together, one-on-one, a basic chemistry fundamental beyond words. In the ring, it's like they don't even need to call the moves, go high, duck low, their bodies always know. 

And like now, when John slides his hand over the back of his, locks their fingers together, and Punk groans, slamming his eyes shut. John's killing him, this steady press, deep then deeper until Punk can't even breathe, but backing off when Punk gets too close because they both know they need this to last for as long as possible. Just as Punk catches his breath again, John snaps his hips and Punk sees stars. 

"John," Punk groans the name, and it's all he knows to say. Just John's name, over and over, a litany, practically a prayer, as if John's his own personal fuckgod. Then again, Punk will totally cop to that statement right now just as long as John never fucking stops. 

Then, John digs an arm under his hips, cradling him, and tugs him back onto his cock, thrusts short and deep and aimed with lethal precision. Punk doesn't howl; he _whimpers_. Just the lightest friction of the sheets against his cock is enough to send him over the edge, a burst like lightening and a roar in his ears, then a rush, liquid and hot. If ever something is almost too good, this is it, but Punk's far from complaining. John follows him scant seconds later, and that guttural groan from behind and above Punk sizzles through him. 

Sometimes John likes to smush him into the bed afterwards because he's a dick, but this time John is cool. A kiss to Punk's shoulder, then Punk is hauled onto his side, away from the wet spot under him. Punk settles like a fallen log, John's arm heavy around his middle. 

It'd be easy to fall asleep like this -- he's done it so many times before -- but the stroke of John's thumb over his hip, usually lulling, keeps him awake instead. 

"You're thinking at me," he says, soft. 

"'The view never changes.'" The reply from John is just as soft, tickling the hair at the nape of Punk's neck. 

Punk quietly snorts. "Are you going to overanalyze my tweets like the rest of the IWC?" 

"The one who talks the loudest says the least." 

Punk sighs. "Don't be giving me that Yoda shit right now." 

"There're a lot of things I give you that you don't want." 

John's really cutting to the quick tonight. Punk could laugh; be careful what you wish for. He swallows the easy retort, the one that bites back. He just wants to tell the truth, tired of hedging. "Too pigheaded to want," he finally says. Then, after a long moment, where John knows him well enough to wait for the rest, he adds, almost a whisper, "But I need." 

"Is that a good thing or bad?" 

Punk closes his eyes and exhales. They're not quite touching, but John radiates heat, and Punk feels like a snake in the sun, soaking up the warmth. He should turn around, look John in the eye. This is the first real conversation they've had in a long time. But maybe it's best, for the both of them, that he doesn't. 

"You know, a friend told me once that love isn't enough. Another told me that love's all you got." 

John, as always, rolls with the non sequitur. "And what do you think?" 

John's tone is reserved, but it isn't Professional Courtesy John Cena right now. Punk can hear the difference. John can ask him to stay; Punk can ask John to ask him to stay. But they're both grown men, even if Punk can be a petulant child at times and John a complete goofball. Business is business; business is personal. When Punk talks of love, it's business, it's personal, it's everything in between. And John knows that. The choice-- the _choices_ are Punk's to make. 

Punk takes the plunge; he turns and looks John in the eye. He touches John's face, flesh that gives, real as anything in this life. 

"They'd both tell me that when it feels right, it'll feel right, and you'll just have to go with it. You have to grab it with both your hands and don't let go. I think I can agree with that." 

This time, when Punk closes his eyes, it's to lean in, it's to press his mouth to John's, not soft but gentle, as John deserves. Just as Punk soaked up John's warmth before, John basks in the kiss now. When Punk draws back, John's eyes are still closed, those stupidly long lashes touching his cheeks. The smile on John's lips is faint, but it changes the whole contour of his face. And when John opens his eyes, Punk is the one who finally _sees_. 

Whether Punk stays or goes in six months, he still doesn't know and it doesn't really matter. Because he gets it now. 

Some views never change. Others do.


End file.
